Cakewalk

by Claire Hastings

  “Oh,” Gigi said, startled by the question. She hadn’t meant to volunteer anything. “I’m just passing through. I’m on my way to Montreal.”

  “From that accent it sounds like you’re a long way from home. Vacation?”

  “No, I was recently widowed,” she said, reciting her practiced response. “There wasn't much left for me with my husband gone, so I decided to start over somewhere new.”

  “What’s in Montreal?” The blonde’s smile was bright and cheerful, and she seemed genuinely curious. Gigi didn’t know why, but she liked these women, even though they’d barely had a conversation.

  “Nothing specific. I’ve just always wanted to go.”

  “Then why not stay here? We need a cake person, and obviously you were just dropped in our laps for a reason.”

  Gigi was taken aback by the suggestion. Stay here? In Vermont?

  “I don’t have anywhere to stay,” she told them, not sure if it was an excuse or a plea.

  “We’ll help you get settled!” Audrey said. “Just say yes—I want these pretty cakes for the Busy Bean.”

  Gigi’s head was spinning. Could she really just stay right here? She didn’t even know the name of the town, and it seemed awfully small. But maybe that was just what she needed. A small town in the middle of nowhere Vermont where she could be anything she wanted. The people here knew nothing about her or her history, so they wouldn’t question her story about being a widow. These women were offering her a job and to help her find a place to live, so she was already off to a better start than she would be in Montreal.

  “Okay, deal.”

  “Wonderful! You can bake and decorate out of our kitchen here to start since you don’t have a place of your own yet. If you want, you can start tomorrow. Kirk is our morning barista and Roderick runs the kitchen, so we can have them train you on how the whole place works. We should have most of the basics you need to bake, but if there is anything special you need, just let us know and we’ll get it ordered for you!”

  “Great! Thank you so much!”

  Gigi couldn’t believe that had just happened. Was it really that easy? The more she thought about it, the happier she was. She had a plan. There was just one problem.

  She didn’t actually know how to bake…

  2

  Holden

  Holden St. James tapped the screen of his phone currently strapped to his arm, skipping the song that had just started playing as he pushed into mile three of his daily run. He wasn't in the mood for classical today. He needed something that was going to inspire him. Today I’m actually going to write, he told himself.

  Of course, he’d said that every day for the last six years, and yet his manuscript still sat there, barely touched. He had some basic notes and ideas, even a half-decent start on chapter one. But nothing that one could actually call a book. He’d spent hours just staring at the blank page and that stupid blinking cursor, trying to find the words to write, but they never came. They were gone. Gone and had never come back.

  Just like Hannah.

  He shook his head and sucked in a deep breath of crisp, cool morning air, trying to center his thoughts again. It was the perfect fall morning—bright and clear, crisp but not bone-chilling cold yet, and the leaves were still their fantastical fall colors. He knew this wouldn’t last for long—soon enough all those glorious leaves would fall, they’d see less and less of the sun, and the cold would settle in for the long haul. These were the kinds of mornings that were perfect for running. That led to the kind of run that almost made him miss playing professional soccer.

  It’d been six years since he stepped away from the pitch…and the world. Six years since the most important thing in the world had been ripped away from him. Since he’d walked into his London apartment after celebrating winning the championship with his team to find the front door wide open, house ransacked, and his wife and unborn child murdered. He’d loved the game, but he’d loved his wife more, and losing her and their daughter, especially like that, was more than he could handle. Walking away from it all after her death was the easy part—it was the picking up the pieces that he was still struggling with. He knew that he couldn’t keep letting himself think of Hannah and the baby girl they planned to name Hermione after Hannah's favorite Harry Potter character, yet he just couldn’t stop. His brain’s default setting was always right there with his girls, reminding him that he hadn’t been there when they’d needed him. That they were dead because of that.

  It’s not that he hadn’t tried. He’d gone to therapy. Twice. Both of the therapists he’d seen had told him that he needed to find his passion again, to find something to pour himself into. Which is why he’d finally tried to start that novel he’d always talked about writing. Professional sports had never been his plan, but when he was recruited out of college, it was an opportunity he couldn’t say no to. But as the son of a literature professor and a special education teacher who’d majored in creative writing, sports were always just going to be a means to an end. Maybe even inspire a few characters or stories. A year later when Chelsea FC came calling, he knew his novel would just have to wait a few more years, so he and Hannah packed up and moved to London.

  “It’ll be an adventure!” Hannah had said when his agent called with the offer. “Think about it. The home of Dickens and Jack the Ripper! Paddington Bear!”

  “You did not just lump Jack the Ripper and Paddington Bear in the same category,” Holden laughed.

  “You know what I mean!” she responded with a playful smack. “We can do weekends in Paris when you’re not playing, and explore all sorts of new things. Maybe you’ll even find the object that you’ll base your best-selling book series off of. Who knows what could happen!”

  If he’d only known what would happen, he would have stuck to his original plan and just become a teacher.

  Come on, slow poke, pick up the pace. Coffee awaits us, he thought as he pushed himself up a slight hill.

  Up until moving to Vermont, he’d never been a morning runner. He’d always preferred the evenings, watching the sunset and the day wind down. However, five years ago, after more than a year of him almost never leaving the house, his housekeeper, Mrs. Welch, told him that he wasn’t allowed to be home anymore while she cleaned his house. Well, not his house, exactly. It technically belonged to his godfather, but Holden had been living there since he’d walked away from his professional soccer career in London six years ago, and his godfather had moved to Florida to be closer to Holden’s parents. Mrs. Welch had been taking care of the 1850s Victorian home for as long as Holden could remember, and so when she informed him he was to get out, he did as he was told.

  Rounding the corner into town, he passed Speakeasy, the new taproom that was exactly the kind of place that Holden and his buddies would have hit up. Now, however, there wasn’t anyone in his life to do that with. Not that his old teammates from Chelsea or even the US Men’s National Team wouldn’t come visit if he asked, but he didn’t plan on asking. He enjoyed his life of solitude. The quiet and privacy of the big old house allowed him to wallow in his own self-pity. And it wasn’t like he was a recluse—he did get out. He ran the five miles into town every day to get his coffee at the Busy Bean and catch up on the news. So what if he didn’t actually talk to anyone? You didn’t need to actually speak to people in order for it to be socializing. Slowing down, he ducked off the side of the road and into the parking lot of the taproom. He slowed to a walk by the time he’d hit the wooded area in between the two buildings, allowing him to take it all in.

  A lady carrying a to-go carrier of coffee about knocked Holden over as he opened the door to the Busy Bean. She was in so much of a rush she barely paused long enough to throw him a dirty look, as if her not watching was his fault. He responded with a forced smile, knowing that if he stopped to engage, all it would do is delay him getting his own coffee. She was lucky she hadn’t spilled on him though. Then he probably wouldn’t have been quite as understanding.


  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” he heard a sweet, southern-sounding voice say. It was light and melodic and, for some strange reason, kind of reminded him of home. Looking around, he couldn’t quite tell where the voice had come from until his eyes caught sight of the strawberry-blonde beauty behind the counter.

  She was pretty, but in an understated way, yet Holden’s eyes were immediately drawn to her. There was something about those lush curves on her petite frame that he just could not ignore. She couldn’t have stood more than five feet two, but every inch of her seemed to call to him. He felt his pulse pick up slightly as he watched her move behind the counter, her hips swaying as she tried to maneuver around the small space. He hadn’t felt like this about a woman since he’d first seen Hannah across the quad their sophomore year in college, and it was throwing him off more than just a little. Who was she, and where did she come from?

  Obviously new and trying very hard to figure out how it all worked behind the counter, she seemed a bit overwhelmed by everything. Kirk—current Busy Bean barista and the kid who until recently had been renting the apartment above his garage—was trying to show her how the steam wand worked, even though it was very evident by the mess on the counter and how wet their aprons were that she was not taking to the machine. Kirk towered over her, but at six feet two, he tended to do that to a lot of people, Holden included. But their height differential was seeming to make her even more nervous, and Holden felt his heart give a little tug.

  What was that, dude? he asked himself. He didn’t understand what it was about her, but there was something.

  Maybe he was just worried that yet another new person behind the counter would mean his standing order would end up getting messed up. He’d seen staff come and go from this place, some better than others, but Kirk had actually taken to the job rather well. The kid had lived over his garage for almost two years, working odd jobs around the area. When Mrs. Welch had asked Holden as a favor if her nephew could move into the studio apartment, he’d reluctantly agreed. However, a month ago Kirk moved in with a friend to save money before they moved to a “a permaculture, eco-village" in Costa Rica sometime after the first of the year. Kirk was a nice enough kid, although his dry personality sometimes reminded Holden of a robot and made for rather awkward interactions. Holden couldn’t say he’d been sad to see the kid go. He liked being alone, and even though they weren’t sharing a roof, even having him on the same property was sometimes just a little too close.

  “Morning, Kirk,” Holden said, walking up to the pair.

  “Holden,” Kirk responded, his dry tone and expressionless face greeting Holden. “Usual?”

  “Yup. Regular coffee, two sugars, and a muffin.”

  “Right. What kind of muffin?”

  “Surprise me.”

  Kirk heaved a sigh before turning to the blonde. “Think you can pick out a muffin?”

  She smiled sweetly in return, even though her gray eyes seemed sad, and Holden could see the southern manners shining through, though she hadn’t even said anything. His mother was the same way, just not southern, and he could feel the corner of his mouth lift into a smile just thinking about it. Who was she?

  “I can pick out a muffin just fine, thanks,” she drawled. Heading over to the display case, she grabbed one and put it on a plate, which she slid over toward Holden. “And you said a regular coffee?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Holden nodded.

  She grabbed a cup from the stack on the counter and turned around to fill it from the large, industrial carafe behind her. He could see her body tense as Kirk stood over her and watched her pour the hot liquid. It was a little overbearing of him, but if she was as awkward with everything else as she had been with the steam wand just now, then maybe he could see where the kid was coming from. Holden continued to take in her curves as she faced away from him. When they turned back around with his drink, he had to tell himself to stop staring.

  “Oh, Gigi, this is Holden, the guy I was telling you about,” Kirk said as she put a lid on the cup and slid it toward him.

  “Me?” Holden questioned.

  “Gigi is new in town and needs a place to live. She’s a widow. I was telling her that I just moved out of your garage apartment.”

  A widow? His ears perked up at the word.

  “You’re kinda young to be a widow, aren’t you?” he asked. Way to be an asshole, dude. She’s not that much younger than you and you’re a widower.

  “Heart attacks don’t discriminate,” she answered, sounding a tad skittish. Of course she did—you just called her out about her husband dying, moron.

  “And because of that you need an apartment?” Holden asked, making sure he was tracking this. He wasn’t sure how he fit into this picture exactly.

  “Yeah,” she said, blushing. A small, hopeful look filled her eyes as she continued. “It’s a bit of a strange situation. I was passing through yesterday after getting lost and having a flat tire, but then I met Zara and Audrey and they said they were looking for help with cakes and one thing led to another and here I am.”

  “Yesterday? Where are you staying now?”

  “Yeah, like I said, it all happened kinda fast. I spent last night at the motor lodge. Although, I’m not entirely sure that the little old lady running the place isn’t there now going through my things. She seemed really suspicious of me. But, I just lost my husband and I’m starting over so I don’t have a lot, and I need a place I can pay cash until some insurance stuff gets sorted out. Kirk here mentioned that he’s been paying you in cash, so maybe you might consider letting me do the same?”

  Fuck. Thanks, Kirk, Holden thought. Sure, the space was empty, but Holden didn’t have any intention of filling it. Kirk had been an exception. He didn’t need the money. He had plenty from being a professional athlete, and it’s not like he was paying a mortgage. He liked being alone, and he didn’t want the company. He wanted solitude, not another renter. Why did this have to be the one time Kirk tried to be helpful?

  “I hadn’t really planned on renting that space again,” he said, trying to be careful how he worded things. He didn’t want to come off as “that guy,” but he wasn’t looking to be anyone’s landlord again either.

  “Oh, okay,” she said, that polite smile still plastered on her face. Holden could see that hopeful look in her eyes disappear.

  Holden felt his insides squeeze. He had no idea why he was about to say this, but against his better judgment, he told her, “It’s not much. Really, just a bedroom with a little kitchenette. But if you really have no other place to go, I guess you could rent it for a few months until you figure something else out. At least it gets you out of the motor lodge.”

  “Really?” she shrieked, causing Kirk to grimace and step away from her.

  “Sure. Kirk can give you the address, and you can move in whenever,” he said. He really had no idea why he was agreeing to this, but here he was.

  “Thank you!” she said.

  “Sure,” he replied, taking his order and finding a seat at the counter by the window, trying to avoid whatever-her-name-was that always sat on the peach-colored couch. Her conversations sometimes got a little loud, and this morning he just needed to eat his muffin and finish his coffee so he could get out of here. Forget catching up on the news, he could do that at home. And forget trying to be creative and writing today. He was too worked up by what just happened. Why the fuck did he say yes?

  The run home did little to soothe his agitation. More than anything, he couldn’t stop thinking about that sad look in Gigi’s gray eyes. He knew that pain. He felt that pain. For a moment, he had wanted to hop over the counter and pull her into his arms and tell her it would be alright, even though he wasn’t sure it would. It still wasn’t alright for him, so who the hell was he to say anything?

  When Gigi showed up later that afternoon, she looked like she had just stepped out of the mall in her skinny jeans, designer sweater, and matching shoes. She had been cute this morning at the coffee shop,
but now as he watched her try and pull an oversized suitcase out of the back of a Jeep, she looked downright beautiful. With her gorgeous figure no longer hidden behind the apron from the café, Holden couldn’t help but notice that this woman was curvy in all the right places. Her sweater was fitted just enough to leave him wondering if her breasts were as perfect as they seemed hidden under that soft fabric, and those jeans stretched across a pair of hips that led to an ass he couldn’t help but want to take a bite of. After a moment of watching her, he ran over to help, worried that she might topple over from the weight of the luggage.

  “Let me get that,” he said, grabbing the handle of the bag. The smile she flashed him made his stomach do something weird as he drank her in. Her makeup was done simply, letting her natural beauty shine through. Holden couldn't help but wonder what her story was. Looking at her, he wouldn’t have taken her for someone who was shy, yet she was decidedly guarded.

  “Thanks. Kirk didn’t really introduce us, huh? I’m GeorgiaGrace Hawthorne, but everyone just calls me Gigi.”

  “Holden St. James,” he said, nodding at her.

  He helped her carry her stuff up the stairs and into the small studio apartment above the garage. Standing in the kitchenette when they finally had everything upstairs, he handed her the key. The area was small, forcing them to stand closer than he normally would to a stranger, but he didn’t mind being this close to her. She, however, still seemed a little uneasy.

  “This used to be a carriage house when the place was first built in 1853. They converted it into a garage around World War II and created this space for staff,” he told her, trying to make the moment less awkward.

  “Wow. We don’t have a whole lot of stuff that’s this old in Atlanta. The yankees kinda burned most of it down,” she said, her southern accent in full swing.

  “So that’s where you’re from? Atlanta?” he asked, letting his curiosity get the better of him. He knew he should just walk away, but he couldn’t help himself.